


And Everybody's Watching Him...but He's Looking at You

by ken_ichijouji (dommific)



Series: Vodka Infused with a Dash of Bitters [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Chris Sees All With His Scrying Pool, Chris is Smarter Than All of You, M/M, Mentions of Casual Hook Ups, Mentions of Previous Katsuki Yuuri/Christophe Giacometti, POV Christophe Giacometti, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 23:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15673068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dommific/pseuds/ken_ichijouji
Summary: Chris is a lot more perceptive than people assume at first glance. Times like these, he'd rather he wasn't.





	And Everybody's Watching Him...but He's Looking at You

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> [Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/12168581471/playlist/091tI3OPknWVtnBQJUQ06g?si=8KOQSRlkQUq4OUK-3pQaEQ)  
> 

Like a bad relationship where the sex is too good to leave, Christophe Giacometti just cannot quit the service industry.

Chris has a Bachelor’s in Actuarial Science from the London School of Economics. He paid his way through uni bartending, as so many often do. He was offered a job in Manhattan before he graduated, and he stayed for ten months before quitting to rejoin late nights, regulars who tip forty percent like clockwork, and the SOBEWFF every Spring. Then he’d go back to the financial sector while Chris stayed on at his bar of the moment for weekends.

Within six months, the long, early commute would be killing him, the dry cleaning bills would give him fits, the hellish overtime robbing him of free time to relax with his beautiful Sabine (his white Persian cat) would bring him down, and he’d go back to full time slinging liquor without even looking back at Bowling Green.

He is no longer willing to dance that tired, outmoded waltz.

Plus, Chris is trapped behind a desk staring at blinking cursors in the field he majored in. He’s a social creature who cannot go six hours without flirting. This is better in every possible way.

Yuuri is behind the bar with Chris. There’s a bachelor party taking up most of the bar top in that Ralph-Lauren-J.Crew-blandly-good-looking way, and Chris and Yuuri do what they always do in these scenarios. Charming smiles, bedroom eyes (at each other as well as the the guests — it gives them higher tips), impeccable recommendations…they’ll each walk out with a disgusting amount of cash and the satisfaction of a job well done.

When Yuuri looks down into the well or turns his back, though, he seems to think Chris can’t see the light just… _die_ in his eyes.

Victor also probably imagines Chris doesn’t see the _pain_ when he looks at Yuuri during staff meetings.

Speak of the devil, Celestino and Victor are en route to Laguardia with a detour through Grand Prix to visit a winery they’re considering commissioning for a custom merlot. Victor’s in a McQueen scarf with his shearling jacket, and Celestino looks like he just cut the brake lines to Chris’s Audi because he disgraced the family.

“You sure you have it all?” Celestino asks.

Chris gives him a smile. It’s worry, not commentary on his competency as interim bar manager. “As always, Celestino, I will follow your instructions to the letter.”

Celestino nods. Victor’s gaze lingers on Yuuri’s back, and the tragedy is how Yuuri’s lingers on his after they say farewell when their cab pulls up to the curb.

At a high top towards the door, there’s a group of austere looking business people examining the menus as though the secret of turning lead into gold can be found within.

Chris hates three things more than anything else in the entire world.

The third are the people who come to his flat and lecture him about how Sabine shouldn’t be allowed on his counters, range, desk, et cetera. The purring, blue-eyed lady of the house goes wherever she damn well pleases. She lives there, they don’t.

The second is Duran Duran’s cover of “911 is a Joke,” because what the hell was that?

The first are campers.

_Campers._

The type of customer that takes up a hot part of your section all night because apparently chatting until last call without actually buying anything is too hard or something. Chris hates them, _loathes them_ , because the entire point of this industry is to give people the time of their lives for 90 minutes tops before sending them packing as you pocket the forty bucks cash they put in the billfold.

Chris wants to kill them.

Yuuri is good with campers, though, probably because of his more innocent sex appeal. He seems earnest, not pushy, when he goes back to ask if they need more water. They have a system by now, and Yuuri doesn’t even ask as he steps around the bar to the Suits. They’re happy to talk with him, he makes recommendations, and when he returns he concocts the exact same drink four times using lavender simple and a wash of Maraschino.

Chris doesn’t know what those are. That he doesn't is not weird, they each conduct experiments all the time. They have to or they’ll go mad slinging the same Hendricks and Tonics with cucumbers every night until they kick out the revelers.

Yuuri carries the tray, and the Suits light up with their first sips. A couple of them take notes while the rest ask Yuuri questions, engage him in chatter, and a guy definitely is eye-banging him.

Chris eye-bangs him often too, along with Phichit, Victor, Celestino, Emil’s weed dealer Seung-gil, and on occasion Sara because there’s only so gay a man can be in her wake. Plus, her brother’s a rampaging bore so one works with what one has.

Yuuri and Chris more than eye-banged a few times, but Chris isn’t sure about the serious thing and Yuuri definitely doesn't want serious. It’s fun, casual, and if sometimes when they go to the clubs, Yuuri ends up in his bed well who cares? _Laissez les bon temps rouler._

Though… it’s been a while. They still go out, they still take too many Patron shots, they may or may not accept friendly offers of… diamond dust from Seung-gil the Dealer, but Yuuri goes home alone now.

It’s no big deal, Chris doesn’t want for partners. Last time, he ended up taking Phichit home and that was a good time, too.

He does wonder why the change, though. He can’t help it.

Yuuri has the Suits eating out of palm, purring while they do it, and as he comes back, the smiles slowly creeps off his face. Just like is his new habit, like that line Billy Joel so famously croons every night at the Garden that segues into how the microphone smells like a beer.

It’s crowded, the Jos. A. Banks bros get too loud, too sloshed, and… the groom is crying. He loves Siobhan so much, apparently, he can’t help it. There’s awkward back patting now and reassurances with very pink popped collars, and Chris brings him some tea on the house.

Yuuri primarily works the Suits, but he helps wrangle the Crying Drunk Frat. “Hey Chris,” Yuuri says. “They want more Buffalo Trace, but it’s in the back. Give me a few, okay?”

“Of course, _schatzi_ ,” Chris calls. He tends to the soft-hearted, praying soon he won’t have tears left to cry. Or… sing. He’s awkwardly warbling this hideously off-key Hall and Oates cover.

He’s five years old. How does he even know Hall and/or Oates?

A tap lands on Chris’s shoulder. It’s the woman from Yuuri’s Legal Drama table. “Hi, we have to head out, but I wanted to make sure Yuuri gets this,” she says.

A credit slip peeks out of the top of a check holder.

It’s pretty normal that this happens. People assume restaurants are hives of scum and villainy. In fact, a former coworker did get fired for stealing other people’s cash tips before they got them off the tables themselves. It sucks, but it’s what it is. Chris smiles and nods. “I’ll hand it to him personally,” he says, holding her eye contact.

They’re a pretty, soulful brown, and she definitely grows a bit flustered. “Yes, well. Thank you.” She walks out, but she definitely gives Chris the ole eyes over the shoulder as she does.

Yuuri returns with the Buffalo Trace and some other odds and ends. He scratches off the price sticker as he places it where it rightfully belongs. He sets a bottle of Navan next to the Grand Marnier.

Chris taps him with the leather book. “Here, _schatzi_.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri says. He opens the check, and there’s something he pushes aside to check his tip.

Then he freezes and looks at the first thing. Yuuri turns white. His hands begin to shake, and a soft “This doesn’t make sense,” falls from his lips.

“Yuuri?” Chris asks.

Yuuri holds up a white piece of card stock with black and silver embossing. James Beard Foundation is on the front. On the back reads Tessa Virtue, President, along with their address, phone numbers, and her email.

“Oh,” Chris says. He thinks back, and the wavy, long light brown hair and smile… yeah, that’s definitely Tessa Virtue, the new President of the James Beard Foundation Yuuri spent all night chatting up. The brown-haired man to her right was the VP, Scott Moir. One of the other new executives must have been the one thirsting after Yuuri.

Yuuri has been handed a ticket to fame and respect beyond anything else. Granted, it’s too early for semi-finalists, let alone finalists, but Ms. Virtue definitely seemed to like what she tasted.

Chris swallows down the sting of envy. Bad enough Victor’s a five time winner, now Yuuri may be a semi-finalist or even finalist.

The news isn’t making Yuuri preen. He’s not even happy. He tears the card up, throws it into the bar trash can, and chokes. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Chris keeps an eye on him. He’s… baffled. Anyone else would be popping champagne, prematurely signing endorsement deals, extremely prematurely opening their own speakeasy. Yuuri looks like he wants to use his belt as a noose.

It’s slowed down, and just when enough time’s passed Chris considers sending rescue dogs after Yuuri, the young Yuri drags him by the shoulder-seam. He’s infuriated, Yuuri has been visibly crying, and Yuri shoves him onto a bar stool. “Do not. Move. An inch. Pig.”

Yuuri wipes red, dry eyes. Yuri violates about four legal statutes by coming behind the bar and grabbing Yuuri a bottle of Fever Tree ginger ale. He pops off the top and pours it over ice.

“Let it go a little flat,” he instructs to Yuuri.

Yuuri hiccups. “Okay.”

Yuri doesn’t care about people who aren’t his Grandpa or his cat. There’s an unspoken code of honor at Grand Prix, though, that if someone makes Yuuri cry, their life becomes a pit of murder and despair. If the person works there, then they likely won’t continue to for long.

Cao Bin lasted two weeks after he did it. He’s at Butter now, and if he ever sets foot in here again, someone will kill him and no one will tell or give up any evidence. There’s a pact, like a kind of savage murder-tontine, to protect Yuuri.

Yuuri stirs a straw in the soda.

Yuri sighs. “I needed to piss, and I heard crying behind a stall. I recognized his sobbing, kicked the door in, and tried to get him to spill. It’s apparently not a person, just him being stressed or something.”

Yuuri doesn’t defend himself or look up. He sips the soda very slowly. Yuri somehow has a manager card that Chris immediately realizes is his, and he rings in a truffle cheese with extra fries and the bone marrow poppers for Yuuri. He slides it back onto the clip attached to Chris’s belt loops once it’s been comped, and he sashays back to the host stand with his half-braided cornsilk blond hair swaying as he goes.

They’re not allowed to sit at the bar in their uniform when they’re open. They are _definitely not allowed_ to drink on the clock. If Yakov or Celestino saw him, though, they’d be the first to pour him a double. Chris is softer than either of them, so he grabs the new Buffalo Trace bottle and gives Yuuri a triple. He takes a single for himself, raising it in a silent toast.

Yuuri dumps the bourbon into the glass that isn’t quite full of ginger ale. He raises the glass in return, hiccups, and they drink.

Chris knows Yuuri can’t be pushed to talk. He feels intruded on and bundles up like a hedgehog that gets poked in its soft underbelly. Chris cleans the shot glass he used, putting it back where it belongs, takes a tub of dirty plates and utensils to the back from their customers, and starts to close.

When he’s removed the spouts from the beer taps is when Yuuri says, “I slept with Victor.”

“Was he good? I bet he was good,” Chris says before he can help it. His back’s turned to Yuuri, but he winces anyways. “Sorry. That’s not the point, obviously.”

Yuuri doesn’t speak again, and Chris worries he blew it. He needs an ear, and honestly… Chris cares about him a lot. Not just as a coworker, but as a friend. In spite of knowing Victor for only about five months, he cares about him a lot too. They have fun when they work together, and they have similar tastes in drinks, music, and… men apparently.

“I slept with Victor and now I’m possibly in the running for the James Beard Award,” Yuuri states like he’s up for a summary execution.

“Yes, they’re generally celebratory things,” Chris says. “You however, look like you’ve been given VIP treatment at your own funeral.”

Yuuri downs his cup, and Chris goes ahead and makes the bourbon and ginger for him this time. Yuuri nods his thanks and drinks half of it.

“I slept with Victor, my direct boss, and a month later I’m arguably considered a nominee for a James Beard Foundation award,” Yuuri repeats. “I knew it.”

“You… knew it.” Chris needs a double-shot himself. So he has one.

“I knew what sleeping with me can do to Victor’s career if people find out,” Yuuri says. “That’s why when I realized he was into it, I tried to keep him at arm’s length. You know what everyone still says about Bobby Flay after his most recent divorce.”

“That’s the least of what people say about Bobby Flay,” Chris points out. “And with scandals like Batali, it’s just not a big—“

Yuuri’s shoulders go ramrod straight. He pulls out his iPhone and opens a tab in Safari. It’s a TMZ post from a month ago. Nikiforov’s Public Necking: Who’s this Mystery Man?

The people making out against the Bull… the one Chris sees clearly given the grainy, terrible, Motorola RAZR-esque photography is definitely Victor thanks to his unique hair color. His partner is a few inches shorter, dark haired, and that shade of blue is from a coat Chris sees hung in their staff room every day.

Chris gets it. “Yuuri, you’re both consenting adults. If you want to be together, all you have to do is make a press release. Talk about how you met at work and sparks flew.”

“They’ll never believe it,” Yuuri says as he takes his phone back. “They’ll think it was some kind of arrangement to get the Beard board to look into me. Even without the whole thing tonight, no one would believe me. The second he begins talking me up in any press or mentoring me openly… everyone will think it’s because of sex! He’ll be ruined reputation-wise. And what about his previous awards? Don’t you think they’ll wonder suddenly why he always wins?”

“It’s in his name,” Chris quips to try to lighten things. “Winner Winnerson, I believe, is the proper translation.” He winks. “Right, Courage Born to Win?”

Yuuri ignores him. “I don’t care what people think of me, but I won’t…” Yuuri chugs the rest of his highball. “I won’t damage what he’s built. I won’t ruin him. I won’t cast suspicion on his achievements. I won’t cast suspicion on his judgment. That photo was posted while we… we…”

“I get the point,” Chris says.

“It posted while we were together, and when we lived together, Phichit pranked me by putting push notifications for that gossip rag on my phone,” Yuuri says. “I never shut them off. And I saw—“ He doesn’t cry again, but the reality’s so much worse. It’s the look of someone who thought after struggling their whole lives they finally found relief to have it stolen at the eleventh hour. He’s devastated. “The hardest thing I’ve ever done is tell him it didn’t matter to me,” Yuuri whispers.

Chris wipes his hand down his face. “You know that killed him, don’t you?”

Yuuri shrugs. “He’ll recover. I’m not worth all of the fallout.”

“That’s his decision,” Chris says. He’s no longer upset or hurting on Yuuri’s behalf. He frankly wants to shake him until his brain falls back into place. It’s selfless, it’s loving, what he’s doing, martyring himself for Victor’s career, but any brief passerby would see Victor doesn’t want anything nearly as much as Yuuri.

“It’s the right choice,” Yuuri says. “It’s better this way.”

Chris observes Victor, coming to work every day like he’s clawing for solid ground. He sees Yuuri occupy the same space, pulled down by an undertow he caused, refusing rescue as he drowns. “Yuuri. You could be happy. Both of you. Talk to him. Let him decide, okay?”

Yuuri is full of grace, dignified yet simultaneously cracked into fragments like a perfectly angled impact to its flaw would shatter a diamond. He’s in pieces, and Victor’s stranded on a deserted island covered by hope in lieu of sand. The breaths between them may as well be miles, and Chris wonders if the staff needs to make a murder-tontine on Victor’s behalf solely to save him from Yuuri’s idiotic noble heart.

The hunter’s been captured by the game, and Chris is pissed that this complicates so many things that were easy just that afternoon.

Yuuri gets it together, and they finish closing. They lock up, and before they go to separate places, Chris hugs Yuuri. He’s mad and now questioning how intelligent he actually is, but he hugs him. “Talk to him.”

Yuuri’s up on his toes, glasses crooked in Chris’s shoulder. He feels him shake just a little. His hair smells like citrus.

“Talk to him,” Chris repeats. “Don’t deny both of you this.”

“Can I come home with you?” Yuuri asks.

Chris doesn’t turn him down. He’ll give him a change of clothes, insist he take the bed, and sleep on the couch, but he doesn’t want Yuuri to be alone. That Yuuri even asked instead of Chris making the move says a lot, but Yuuri needs someone to just exist within a space he occupies tonight. Bartending’s kind of a lonely, liminal gig even with a partner or kids, but Yuuri’s tone of voice all night was an open wound.

They walk north on Hudson to 10th, then right onto Perry. Chris lives on West 4th in the Village, and Yuuri is silent like a corpse as they go. It’s less than ten minutes. Chris lets them in the walk up, and before Yuuri can make any noise about sex, Chris hands him a pair of sweatpants that have seen better days and a London Olympics t-shirt.

Yuuri gives Chris a befuddled look.

“You can take a shower, if you like,” Chris offers. “If you take a bath, the orange bath oil that smells like peach is probably your best bet. It won’t clash with your shampoo.”

Yuuri nods. “Thank you.” He goes into the bathroom, the door locking behind him.

Chris deliberately did not mention the bath oil is called _Happy Thoughts_.

Something that’s in short supply for too many of them as he changes into pinstriped silk bottoms and a well-loved sleeveless undershirt. He takes out his contacts at his vanity and sits on the sofa to watch a show before he passes out. Sabine chirps as she becomes a white ball of fluff beside him, purring into she falls into slumber.

Yuuri finishes after about two episodes of the new Queer Eye (Tan France is goals, Chris has long decided), padding into the living room. “It’s free.”

“I’ll shower in the morning,” Chris replies with a smile. “The bed’s all yours, _schatzi_. I’m too wired to sleep.”

Yuuri looks impossibly young with damp hair hanging in his eyes, no glasses, and the too-large clothing hanging off his frame. Chris mutters the word “fuck” under his breath, pauses the stream, and helps Yuuri to bed. Nothing can happen like this; it’s bad for Yuuri and no fun for Chris, so the latter opts to just… hold him until he settles.

Yuuri sleeps like a rock.

Chris doesn’t sleep at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Before anyone gets on me about certain things, a note about working in restaurants: more than a couple of your coworkers have some kind of habit with illicit substances, and many, many of them fuck each other their during off-hours. That just how it be sometimes.
> 
> I personally love the headcanon that Chris is a legitimate genius in ways that Victor, Yuuri, and such are not, and so here's what I chose his degree to be in, and here's also why he's like "for the love of GOD" at Yuuri.
> 
> The title is from Rihanna and Calvin Harris's "This is What You Came For."
> 
> Beta'ed by thehobbem, who's beta'ed this whole universe except her birthday piece. Yes, I made Tessa President of the Beard Foundation. She deserves it.


End file.
